BF7: Riding Job
by ponderinfrustration
Summary: Wyoming, 1892. Sherlock is late coming back from town. John has time to think.


The night is cold, bitingly so. John can see it in the thick frost on the window, the way it distorts the snow blanketing the ground. The room, however, is warm. A roaring fire burning the vestiges of ice away, comforting in its glow so that it seems to soften everything. John stokes the fire idly, feeding it more wood, the ticking clock reminding him of how late it is.

Irene has fallen asleep in Sherlock's chair, curled in on herself like a cat, elegant and graceful even now. The baby is nestled deep into her blankets in the basket on the floor. Little Lorena, her mystery perhaps the greatest any of them have ever come across. (Then again, perhaps not. And he sounds like Sherlock, but it is simple biology which has created this child, even if her father is unknown, long-forgotten as just another client of Irene's.) The baby whimpers in her sleep, tiny fingers twitching against the small quilt that Mrs Hudson put together. In a moment, she's settled again, and John is relieved. He doesn't want to have to wake Irene to feed her – poor woman's hardly gotten any sleep lately, with Lorena's pneumonia making her twice as fretful. Thankfully, it's largely cleared up now, though a rattle to her lungs still lingers on the inhale.

Still no sign of Sherlock. He should have been back hours ago. It was only a five, but he'd been cooped up around the house so long with the dullness of winter that he took it, Irene and John and even Mrs Hudson relieved to see him go. He'd been reluctant, at first, worried about Lorena yet refusing to admit it, but Irene managed to persuade him and in the end he went willingly enough, promising to be back by ten o' clock. Now it's one in the morning and still no Sherlock. John would be lying if he claimed to not be anxious.

He sighs, and lies back, stretching out along the sofa, arms folded behind his head. It's been two and a half years since they've come here, and John still finds himself missing Arizona. Though the winters could be cold enough, it was still warmer than here, less snow on the ground, less frost, less of everything which is making him worry now, and more heat. He likes Cheyenne, he does, likes the people and the cases, the adventures they've had. But there was a simplicity to San Pedro which he can't seem to find here, a homely sort of comfort. It's just a pity that the town had to fall apart.

Irene joined them after a year and a half, showing up one morning after she found out she was pregnant. She could have stayed in Austin and had the child there, continued in her line of work – many other women did, or else they'd try to abort the baby with varying degrees of success, save themselves the extra trouble. But that would never do for Irene, and though Sherlock has never explicitly commented on it, John knows he's spent the last year relieved about it. He calmer now, some of the wild madness soothed out of him (though he's still a lunatic most of the time), and Irene has played no small part in that. He's always treated her differently than other women – though they've never been an actual couple, that John knows of – even before the two years they spent together tearing apart Moriarty's network, yet that certainly reinforced the undeniable affection which was there, albeit hidden most of the time.

The night Lorena was born, Sherlock was delayed coming back too, then he holed himself up in his office with his violin when he heard about Irene being in labour. John remembers and chuckles to himself at the way the great detective was afraid to hold the small baby in case he'd break her. If asked beforehand how he'd expect Sherlock to react to having a baby living with them, John would have answered "with haughty disdain" or something to that effect. (That being in itself a very Sherlockian phrase.) Now, though, he knows what Irene had suspected the day she came to stay with them, that Sherlock would do anything for that child, playing soothing violin melodies for her when she won't sleep, even refusing a definite eight case when she had pneumonia. He couldn't have been more protective – try as he may to hide it – if it was his own daughter.

And the surprise of it makes it infinitely more precious.

* * *

><p>Three in the morning, and Sherlock stumbles in the door, half-frozen and a cut above his eye. John takes one look at him, and immediately pushes him over to the couch, sitting him down in front of the fire which has kept the room warm and placing a glass of whisky in his hand.<p>

"What happened?" he asks, inspecting the cut, which is small but has bled down the side of his face, the blood frozen now with the cold night.

"Had trouble with a gambler who was cheating. He didn't take too kindly to being found out." Sherlock sighs, drinks some of his whisky and looks over at Irene. "You should have gotten her to go to bed."

"I tried. She wouldn't listen, insisted on waiting here for you to come back. You worry her, you know." And if there is reproach in John's voice, it's not intentional. Frankly, Sherlock worries all of them, at one time or another.

"Had a telegram from Lestrade as well," Sherlock says softly. "He has a few cases around Salt Lake that he wants me to look into. There's been some rustling and a murder that he thinks might be linked."

"And what do you think?"

Sherlock smiles just slightly. "I'll swing down there in a few weeks. Take the train most of the way and then Redbeard the rest. It'll be faster than riding but I think I should wait until more of the snow clears."

John arches an eyebrow. "Lorena will be all right, you know."

"Yes, I know she will." His answer is almost too quick and John has to fight a smile.

"I'll go with you. It's a long time since I've seen Greg." Sherlock looks about to protest, so John pushes on. "Irene and Mrs Hudson will manage just fine without us."

Sherlock nods. "They will." For a long time they drink in companionable silence. Sherlock shrugs out of his damp coat which John hangs in front of the fire, sinking back into the sofa, sore and stiff still from the cold ride back with Redbeard.

"The ranchers are convinced that Johnson County is full of rustlers," he murmurs, eventually, feigning unconcern yet if John concentrates he can hear it simmering, the uneasiness which this revelation brings. "They think it's their duty to clean it out. It's a ploy to drive the homesteaders out of the state so that they can claim the best lands back for themselves. They want to have all of the Powder River, though of course they won't put it like that."

"And will they succeed?" John watches him carefully, sees the exhaustion in his face, the on-coming introspection.

The detective shrugs, as if he doesn't care, but John can see that he does, feels uncertain about a course of action and a little concerned about what might happen. Though Sherlock will pretend otherwise, John knows that he does care about the people involved. He's that enough times now to recognise it too. "Who knows? I think they've underestimated the homesteaders. They'll find a much more difficult battle on their hands than they expect. They tried to recruit me for their cause, thinking that I might be sympathetic after the affair in the Panhandle. They think they're in the right and they're going to keep going. I told them it was a pointless exercise, but I doubt if they'll listen." He yawns, and blinks in wonder at himself afterwards.

"Maybe you should go to bed. When was the last time you got a decent sleep?"

Sherlock shrugs, wincing when that disturbs his shoulder, scar tissue stiffening with cold and tiredness. "A month?"

John sighs, knowing better than to pass any remarks. In truth, none of them have slept properly since before Lorena got sick. It's not as if he can be too hard on Sherlock over it. "There's a bottle of liniment in the top drawer of your nightstand. I figured you could use it."

Sherlock smiles, and that betrays his tiredness. "Thanks, John." He stands and walks down the hall, leaving John to deal with Irene.

Four in the morning, and everything finally feels right with the world.


End file.
